


Lately I’ve Been Wishing

by oldmuse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blood Purity Nonsense, Depression, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Racism, I’m going to keep adding to these tags as the story goes on, Little Whinging is white bread hell basically, M/M, Magical Creatures, POC Main character, PTSD, PoC Harry, Recovery from past abuse, Sort-of Sentient Hogwarts, Sort-of sentient magic, The rating will probably go up later as well, original female character adopts harry, romantic relationships are undecided at the moment but they will happen, this is not a self insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-05-01 19:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19184140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmuse/pseuds/oldmuse
Summary: Colette’s eyes narrow as she watches the shadows lengthen across the floor. She feels, inexplicably, that she has been granted a responsibility of some kind; like that great, sentient wall of something has examined her soul and said, ‘Yes, you’ll do.’





	1. all the stars of uncertainty

**Author's Note:**

> For years I’ve tried to think up a good plot/idea for a ‘muggle sorta-kinda adopts harry and gets introduced to the magical world’ story. I think I’ve finally come up with one that satisfies me. I don’t want to spoil too much, but there’s definitely going to be some twists present in this story. I’ll add to the tags before I post each chapter as well so check them often just in case. Other than that, review please and tell me how you like it! Good, bad, whatever. Also please forgive me for any mistakes I might make regarding English/British culture/life. I’m from the United States and have lived in various countries for quite a long time, but never England - so I’m trying my best with that. Feel free to point out anything you think should be changed/added in that regard.

**Summer, 1990.**

* * *

He’s outside again.

Colette puffs out her cheeks in frustration, propping her chin in the palm of her hand as she leans against her kitchen windowsill. She’s been watching the little boy for the last half-hour as he toils away in the hot sun. If it hadn’t been for the fact that her kitchen overlooks the side of her neighbor’s house (their last name starts with a D, she thinks. Davids? Dawkins?) she might never have even known that they have another son. At least, she can only assume the boy is their son. He certainly doesn’t look the least bit related to the giant whale of a boy that she’s often seen in the front yard, hooting and hollering with his pack of cruel little friends.

Her eyes narrow as she compares her memories of Whale Boy with the one she is looking at now. The clothes he wears hang off his too-skinny limbs, pants four or five sizes too big and held up by a scraggly old brown leather belt cinched tight around his waist. He has a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the frames held together by what looks to be scotch tape (and probably quite a bit of luck). It’s really no wonder the D - Dursleys? Yes, that’s it! - seem inclined to keep him hidden from the neighbors by only ever having him tend the garden on the sides and back of the house.

Unluckily for them, Colette moved in three months ago.

They must have forgotten she’s a schoolteacher and out of work during the summer. That, or they just don’t care if she sees the boy toiling in the summer heat without any protection or water to speak of. Colette has only been watching for a little while, but she’s fairly sure from the look of him that he’s been at work for at least two hours or so.

Colette nods decisively. Only one thing for it, then. If the scarecrow-like Dursley woman and her fat, unpleasant husband are unconcerned with letting their - son? Relative? Something? - die of heat stroke, then it’s up to Colette to offer a little care in their place.

* * *

Harry startles violently when he feels a soft touch on his shoulder. The heavy shears he had been trying to lift fall from his grip and crush a few of the flowers he had just planted in perfect rows. He whirls around, expecting to see Dudley and his gang sneering down at him. Instead, a pretty dark-skinned lady stands there in a yellow summer dress, holding two plastic water bottles and a sun hat against her chest. Her free hand is still outstretched toward him, though she pulls it slightly away at his abrupt reaction to her touch.

“Are you okay?” She asks, lips downturned and eyebrows furrowed.

Harry blushes, unsure if he’s embarrassed at the question or just embarrassed that she’s talking to him at all. He’s never spoken to any of the neighbors and Dudley has always done a terrific job of scaring away any potential friends at school. He’s certainly never been sincerely asked if he’s ‘okay’ before.

“I - er...” he swallows, his dry throat protesting the movement. “Y - Yes, ma’am.”

“Right,” the woman replies, looking wholly unconvinced. Still, her frown lifts a little. Between one blink and the next she gives him a brilliant smile, her white teeth contrasting against her brown skin. Harry has never seen anyone with features like hers. To his memory, he can’t recall anyone living in Little Whinging (besides himself) who is any less pale than the Dursleys. Harry’s skin is dark, too, but a different shade, and she doesn’t share the slight upturned edges to her eyes like his. Certainly, her hair is just as richly black, but that is where the similarities end.

Still, she’s _different_ , just like him. He’s so wrapped up in thinking about it, his mind trying to work out the tangled mess of questions (and surely it isn’t usually this hard to think? He must really have worked himself too long this time without a drink of water) that he almost misses her next words -

“Drink, please.” Luckily, she doesn’t wait for him to answer this time. The woman shoves one of the water bottles in his hand after unscrewing the top and waits expectantly. “Not too fast or you’ll be sick. Small sips.”

He does as she says. As soon as the first cool drop touches his tongue, he gulps it down — that is, until she gently pulls at his wrist until he remembers to take it slow again. She had been right; his stomach gives a painful lurch from drinking too much all at once, settling only when he forces himself to take his time.

When the bottle is half empty, he pauses to look up at her again. She smiles softly. “I also brought this,” she says, holding out the sun hat. He stares at it uncomprehendingly. “It’ll help keep the heat off.”

“Thank you, but... but I can’t take it. A-Aunt Petunia won’t be happy if I do.”

“Aunt Petunia?” the woman blinks, confused. “Are you... visiting her for the summer?”

Harry shakes his head. “I live with them. My parents died in a car accident.” He says it matter-of-factly, with no hesitation. Then, continuing in the same vein, he recites the words he’d heard his aunt say to her book club members every other Wednesday afternoon, “I’m a troublemaker — “ the big word feels a little hard to form his mouth around “ — and I’m very lucky that they adopted me. My parents were dru - drunkards and they got themselves...” he can’t finish. It’s always like that. No matter how hard he tries, he can never finish the last word. ‘ _Got themselves killed_ ‘ he’s supposed to say. Ah well. From the stricken look on her face, she seems to understand him well enough.

“What!?“

Oh, or maybe not. Harry takes a step backwards, alarmed. He hadn’t meant to make her angry. He’d only expected that she’d leave after hearing his response to her questions, maybe be a little disgusted for associating herself with him at all. The pinched half-sad, half-furious expression she is now sporting, however, is nothing he’d ever encountered before.

* * *

Colette realizes immediately her mistake. She forces herself to smooth her face into a gentle neutrality again, while still steaming on the inside. “I’m sorry about that,” she whispers, as if to a spooked animal. “I’m not angry at you.”

If anything, the bewildered look he gives her in reply to her apology only breaks her heart into more pieces. Nervously, he takes another slow sip of water, obviously unsure how to respond. Colette kicks herself internally for losing control of her temper at all. But to hear him say such things about himself, about his parents, and to see him struggle with words that are so clearly not his own... it makes her want to wring _someone’s_ neck (and at the moment, Petunia Dursley is looking like a fine outlet for the urge).

“I haven’t introduced myself.” She holds out a hand. “I’m Colette Matthews. I work as a primary school teacher at Gardendale, down the road.”

The boy stares at her hand for a moment, then shakily places his tiny fingers in her palm. God, he’s so _small_ , clearly undernourished. As gently as she can, Colette encloses his little hand in hers and gives it a soft shake.

“I’m Harry Potter. It’s... it’s nice to meet you.”

The words are halting and a little choked, as if he has never actually said them before. Colette’s lips purse at the thought that he may not have ever had the occasion to use them before now. Is she the first one to ever show a trace of kindness to this poor child? He’s looking at her with such trepidation — and yet, a reluctant hope.

“It’s very nice to meet you as well, Harry.”

His hand slips out of hers and he backs up a step, withdrawing from her as soon as she returns the pleasantries. “I have to finish the garden before Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon get home,” he says, staring down at the tops of his too-big converse. When Colette studies them for a moment, she realizes with a sinking stomach that they are, like his glasses, held together with tape - duct tape, in this case.

A plan begins forming in her mind. She kneels down in the grass and places the extra water bottle and sun hat beside her. “Well then!” She says, with forced cheerfulness. “Since I’ve delayed your work for so long, it’s only fair that I help you finish.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“I’m going to help you finish your gardening,” Colette repeats, slowly this time. He stares at her for a long moment, confusion written across his face.

“Why?”

With a sigh, Colette decides honesty — not the whole truth, but at least partially — might be the best way forward for now. “Because it’s bloody hot out here, darling, and I know you’ve been working for hours already —“ she hadn’t known, not for sure, but the way he averts his eyes is enough to confirm it, “— and you’re thirsty and tired and I really _have_ taken up a lot of your time already. If you don’t finish everything before your relatives arrive, it’ll be my fault. Besides,” and here, she has no trouble flashing him a cheeky grin, “You’re the first person in this whole neighborhood I’ve enjoyed speaking to since I moved here.”

Seeming to realize that there’s no changing her mind, Harry finally sits down beside her. They get to work. Colette isn’t a master at gardening by any stretch of the imagination, but she can pull weeds as well as anyone else. Harry rights the flowers that had been squashed by the dropped shears, patting the earth back into place around them and hoping Aunt Petunia won’t notice (a useless thing to wish for; if there is anything she loves as much as Dudley, it’s finding flaws in Harry’s work to berate him for).

They work for another hour. Colette had pulled her long black hair into a braid before coming over to the Dursley’s house to meet Harry, but wisps of it have escaped to stick to the sweat on her face. A low headache begins to form behind her eyes from the heat only thirty or so minutes in, but she leaves the second water bottle alone, nudging it towards Harry when she noticed the first one is empty. Every now and then she tries to draw Harry into conversation again. He answers readily enough, unless she asks something like ‘where do you go to school’ and ‘what do you do for fun’, in which case he inexpertly tries to change the subject.

When Colette happens to mention a funny incident involving two students in her own classroon, his eyes light up, eager to hear more. She gives up on asking him anymore questions about himself after that. If hearing about her life gives him a momentary escape from his own and is enough to make him happy for the time being, she can oblige — at least right now. She regales him with tales of her little brothers and some of their hilarious childhood escapades. When she’s finally able to get him to laugh, bent over in the grass with his face split in a grin and faint dimples appearing in his cheeks, Colette has to swallow a lump in her throat.

When the work is over (far too soon, somehow the time had begun to fly by after the laughter had broken through his shell) Colette reluctantly says goodbye. “Get a good night’s rest, okay? You worked really hard. And drink a lot of water and - and eat a big dinner, okay?”

“I will,” he assures her. He isn’t a skilled liar by any stretch, but she smiles and pretends for his sake that she believes him. That evening, she watches again out her window as the Dursleys pull up the driveway and file into the house. They’re dressed in clothes that fit, healthy from eating more than enough food.

By the time the door closes behind them, Colette has made up her mind. There is something strange going on in that family, something strange over the whole neighborhood in fact. There’s something in the air, like a blanket covering the entirety of Little Whinging, but most notably centered on the Dursley house. She had felt it when she’d first stepped onto their property; a faint push, like an invisible wall with a mind of it’s own.

She had also felt a sharp dizziness upon leaving. For a frightening minute or two, Colette hadn’t been able to remember why she had gone over to the Dursley’s in the first place. It was as if her memories of Harry had struggled to stick. To her relief, the veil had lifted quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, and from then on she has had no trouble remembering every detail of the hours she had spent talking to the boy.

Colette’s eyes narrow as she watches the shadows lengthen across the floor. She feels, inexplicably, that she has been granted a responsibility of some kind; like that great, sentient wall of _something_ has examined her soul and said, _‘Yes, you’ll do.’_


	2. can't i just turn back the clock?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colette is confused and Severus is, as usual, not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to know that the comments I received on the first chapter were what kicked my motivation into gear for continuing with this story! Thanks for the support and the feedback!
> 
> (Also, I did used to work with kids and I know that this is not how child services works exactly. I’m from the US, so I only know how it works here, but also... I am aware that things don’t get addressed this fast in real life. But for the sake of the story, lets just assume that child services would have a really fast response time).

**Summer, 1990** — _Hogwarts School of Withcraft and Wizardry._

 

The moment the blood wards shift, Hogwarts _knows_.

Magic, the entirety of it, is connected in an intricate sort of web. Wizards and witches had managed thus far to figure out some of it’s mysteries, but only the tiniest amount — there is so much still left to _learn_ , so much that they will never really be able to understand completely.

In short, everything that happens in regards to magic — spells, charms, wards, etcetera — is _known_ by magic. And ever since the beginning, Hogwarts has always been the most magically charged place on earth, so it is the first to feel the change when it occurrs.

 _‘A muggle?’_ it is a question without words, a whisper unheard by all but the source. _‘Why?’_

Soft and old and quiet, comes the reply, _‘Why not?’_ And even Hogwarts, as ancient and powerful as it is, can do nothing but acquiesce. After all, there is nothing more frightening and wonderful and absolute in the world than the magic created by a mother’s love.

 

* * *

 

“There seems to be a fly in the ointment, Severus.”

No matter how many meetings Severus Snape sits through with Albus Dumbledore, there is always going to be _something_ the elder wizard says that manages to irritate him wholly within the first five minutes.

“A muggle term, I’m assuming?” Severus replies with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” despite the aforementioned ‘fly in the ointment’, Dumbledore seems entirely unruffled. “I thought it fitting, considering the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

“To be blunt, there has been a change in young Harry Potter’s situation.”

It is only the years of practice he has had around the Dark Lord that enables Severus to keep the panic from showing on his face when he replies, “Is the boy... safe?”

“Ah, my apologies, yes — Harry Potter is quite safe, for now,” Dumbledore assures him quickly, seeming to realize his mistake.

Severus takes a moment to allow the panic to subside and then scowls, “The blood wards are still in place, are they not?”

“They are still firmly in effect, yes.”

“Then what, if I may be so impertinent as to ask, is the _fly_ in the proverbial ointment?”

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye returns in full force at Severus’ annoyed drawl. He takes a lemon drop, offering one out to the Potions Master (who declines with a grunt) before popping it into his own mouth.

“Well, I suppose referring to it as a ‘fly’ is rather too harsh, considering. Perhaps, merely a sort of... ‘addition’ to the ointment, if you will.”

“For Merlin’s sake,” Severus snaps, finally at the edge of losing his temper. Dumbledore holds up a hand and Severus reluctantly quiets, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. He tries not to feel like a petulant child under the heavy stare of the headmaster, but it’s infuriatingly difficult (as it has always been, and most likely always will be).

“The wards are, indeed, still standing strong. However, they are no longer centered over the Dursley family or their home.”

Confusion breaks through Severus’ carefully constructed mask. It is not an emotion he often allows to show on his face, but this — it is too much, too many questions flooding his mind all at once. How can the blood wards have changed? Dumbledore had said they were still active, which means nothing has destroyed or tampered with them (if that’s even possible). Only family ties — _blood_ , as the name suggests- could ever hold the wards in place. According to every text or research done on them (which, admittedly, are few and far between) there is no exception to the rule. In the case of blood wards, family protects family; whether they mean to do so or not.

“Then where were they transferred to? _Who_...?”

“That, Severus, is the reason I called for you,” Dumbledore’s voice is, finally, edged with the seriousness that Severus has been searching for. The headmaster clasps his wrinkled hands together on the desk in front of him. Even though Severus is careful to never meet his eyes (Occlumency is an ever-present threat, even the idea of it), it still often feels as though Albus can see straight through him, to the _core_ of him.

“Colette Matthews is a muggle primary school teacher. She lives in the house next door to the Dursley’s — just moved in quite recently, in fact. Her records contain no criminal acts and from what I have been able to glean, she had a relatively happy childhood and still has a strong bond with her family,” here, Albus pauses, stroking his beard thoughtfully before continuing, “In short, she is wholly unremarkable in every way.”

“I am assuming there’s a point to this?”

“The point, my dear boy, is that the blood wards have _chosen_ her. I can only speculate that they found Mr. and Mrs. Dursley to be severely lacking,” and here, Albus grimaces before continuing, “And in light of that, Magic — and here I do say it with a capital ‘M’, a very rare occurrence indeed — decided to transfer the wards to another source.”

“And this ‘source’, as you put it, would be this... this _random_ muggle woman?”

“No,” Albus’ lips twitch into a smile again, “No, I don’t believe such a transferrence would be made by random selection. Magic does _nothing_ by accident.”

Severus stands from his chair, wishing he could leave and down a bottle or two of fire whisky. His need for answers, however, is strong enough to keep him in place for the time being. “What is our next course of action, then?” He asks tightly, voice strained with barely-suppressed frustration.

“You were raised very near to Little Whinging and spent at least a marginal amount of time in Petunia’s company. You also knew Harry’s mother quite well, of course, which makes you the closest thing the boy has to a real ‘connection’ outside of his blood relatives. Not to mention, you have had greater experience in the muggle world than the rest of the adults at Hogwarts combined. In light of all that, I believe you would be the perfect person to assess both Harry and this muggle that the wards have chosen. Therefore, I’m releasing you from all of your other summer duties and assigning you to —”

“Do _not_ ask me to do this, Albus,” Severus interrupts. Dread curls like a viper in his stomach. He does not want anything to do with James Potter’s spawn, nor does he want any reminders of Lily. Besides, the thought of attempting friendship with a muggle woman sounds about as appealing as being tortured by the Cruciatus curse.

“We know very little about this woman besides whatever could be gleaned from the information contained in the records detailing her background. We need to learn more about her. Besides, she must be watched to ensure she doesn’t stray too far from the Dursley residence or Harry himself. Everything we thought we knew about the wards and about Lily’s sacrifice must be re-evaluated and tested. In any case, she needs to be... _informed_ of her new responsibilities, where Harry is concerned.”

“And if she refuses to carry out these ‘responsibilities’? What then?”

Any further questions die in Severus’ throat at the unfamiliar hint of steel suddenly apparent in Albus’ eyes. The headmaster takes a moment to allow the silence to sink in before answering gravely, “Though it is true that Magic has freedom and power of choice, I’m afraid the same cannot be said for Miss Matthews.”

 

* * *

  **Summer, 1990** —  _Little Whinging_

Colette calls children’s services and leaves a tip about the Dursleys the day after her first meeting with Harry. She’s a schoolteacher, she’s seen enough abuse before to recognize it. In Harry’s case, it’s obvious that his relatives are neglecting him, and Colette has never had qualms about using every resource available to protect a hurting child. She knows it’s unlikely that Harry will be taken away from the Dursley household (assuming the neglect is the only abuse going on inside), but it might scare them into treating Harry better, at the very least.

So she calls. And she waits.

And waits.

After three days, she calls again and, to her confusion, the agent on the line tells Colette that her name is not in their system. “Are you sure you contacted us?” The woman asks, her voice high and patronizing. After a good ten minutes of trying to explain that, yes, she _did_ call and, yes, she _did_ leave a very long and detailed tip about the Dursleys three days ago, the agent sighs. “Alright, ma’am. Let me just have your name and the information again.”

After the second call, Colette waits.

And waits.

She thinks she should probably be awarded a medal for her patience, since she holds out for three and a _half_ days this time. It’s difficult — especially after she sees Harry in the garden again, sweating and red in the face and with no water in sight.

After dropping two bottles of water beside the boy and helping him finish the gardening again, Collete angrily dials the number for children’s services for the third time.

When the call agent (a man this time) declares apologetically that her name can’t be found in the system, Colette honestly wonders if she’s going a little bit insane.

“Are you bloody serious!?” She snaps into the receiver. She hadn’t really been directing the comment at the agent, more at the situation itself, but the man on the other end of the line seems (understandably) affronted by it. Gritting out an apology for her lapse in manners, Colette leaves the tip for a _third_ time. After taking down the information, the agent tightly informs her that a social worker will be sent to assess the situation as soon as possible.

‘As soon as possible’ is apparently code for ‘never’. Two days pass and Colette doesn’t stray too far from the window in her kitchen that overlooks the Dursley house. In all that time, no one but the Dursleys themselves step onto Number 4 Privet Drive’s immaculate front lawn.

When she picks up the phone to dial child services _yet again_ , the receiver makes an odd crackling noise. A sharp sizzle of electricity follows seconds afterwards, sparking and hissing. Colette yelps and reflexively throws the phone. It hits the wall and cracks into two pieces.

“What - what the hell —“ she manages to gasp, before another powerful spark crackles to life over the wire connecting the receiver to the wall. The broken pieces of the phone burst into flame in front of her and it takes a good ten seconds for Colette to pick her jaw up off the floor and run to grab her fire extinguisher.

The day that follows the random combustion of her phone is both strange and _terrifying_ in equal measure.

Colette calls children’s services three more times, one call immediately after another, from the pay phone down the street, but the agents never have her information or her name. Once, she even gets the same male agent from before and he insists that he doesn’t remember her calling, nor does he remember her shouted expletive from their last conversation (which Colette dredges up in a last ditch effort to try and jog his memory). On the fourth try (because Colette is nothing if not stubborn) the pay phone refuses to connect, and Colette’s hands are shaking a little when she leaves the booth to walk home.

The next morning, at precisely nine-o-clock, she hears her doorbell ring.

 


End file.
